Little Earthquakes
by Zayz
Summary: T/Z. Little earthquakes strike, the ground shifts, and slowly but surely, the world is never the same again. Tony, Ziva and team through the years. R&R?
1. Proposal

A/N: It's been a while since my Tony/Ziva creative juices have flowed long enough to get a story to a Word document. But this time, I don't know, something clicked and I am slightly proud of this one.

This is supposed to follow Tony and Ziva (and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the team) over the years – starting with Ray and the empty ring box – and then going wherever my mildly sadistic imagination takes them. Ultimately, this story is my way of answering how I think, realistically, this might work out, and how that scary M word, marriage, would come into play. Originally, this was supposed to be a lengthy oneshot. However, as I started writing, I found I needed more time to explore each big moment, because they were turning points that needed proper attention. Hence, it's a multi-chapter. However, it's no _Kaleidoscope Heart_; it won't be more than 10 chapters. (I hope.)

Thanks a billion to _Wilhelmina Willoughby_ for her wise beta-ing; without her, this story would have been too incoherent for posting.

This is also my start-of-the-new-year fic, as per my tradition. So, I hope you like it. Please remember to review when you're done!

* * *

**I. Proposal**

I could make you a promise  
And be all you want me to be  
Give you my hand as we walk down the aisle  
So you could live happily

But do you really want to give your life to  
Thinking you've found true love  
When it hasn't found you?

- Kimberly Locke, "I Could"

* * *

The only thing Ziva has ever really known about marriage is the disintegration of her parents' union – so it really does surprise her, that afternoon in May, when Ray pulls out a little box and a shiver suspiciously resembling pleasure tolls down her spine.

The box is small, covered in black velvet, like in some of the movies Tony talks about. For a second, she can't breathe. But then he gives her the box and she opens it and another shiver, this one suspiciously resembling disappointment, ripples like water after a bomb.

The box is empty.

He tells her it's supposed to represent a promise, but she doesn't believe him and he probably knows it. He sticks to his story anyway, though, tells her he will come back for her, and then he leaves. He leaves and all she has left is the empty box and confusion.

As she lies awake that night, running the scene over and over and over again in her mind's eye, Ziva tries to tell herself that she's disappointed because that was the first time anyone had proposed to her and he had ruined the milestone, her special moment. And this, to an extent, is true. But really, she's irritated that in the split second between seeing the box and opening it, she had allowed herself to have hopes, expectations. She's pissed – at him, for letting her down, and at herself, for putting herself in the position to be let down.

It had been like a mirage that gave her a glimpse of something she had never known she had even wanted, which then disappeared in the desert air, so that she never even got the chance to consider rejecting it.

* * *

Ray inexplicably returns to Washington a few months later, on a nippy afternoon in February, this time with a ring – and she still doesn't know what to say.

The shock of seeing him again after several weeks of mutual silence, quiet mourning and moving on, coupled with the shock of seeing that ring – silver, slender, with a sizeable diamond glistening in the sunlight – is almost enough to undo her completely.

His brown eyes are earnest and real as he gets down to one knee – again, just like the movies – and asks her to marry him. And she's so flattered, so truly _floored_, that she suddenly wants to forget who she is and where she's been and what he's done and she wants to say yes. She wants to be an ordinary woman, flaunt that silver ring and have a home, a man to call her husband, something permanent and domestic and lovely and _hers_. The moment is perfect: despite everything, his schedule and the way she gave up on him, he made his triumphant return and kept his word after all. Plus, she has always liked him, as much or more so than anyone else she's tried something with. It should be a no-brainer; she should say yes without thinking that hard about it.

But she's Ziva, so of course she thinks hard about it as he remains kneeling there on the ground, waiting. She takes the ring, luminous and tempting, from the box and lets it sit on her palm, considering its weight. Sure, Ray kept his word this time, but she remembers the last time he was here. He had kept secrets from her; his job had required it. How would this go, if they committed to each other? She has her own secrets she has to keep from him, and she works long hours, and he travels all over the world. They have trouble seeing each other as it is; can it really be much different if they are married? Work is still work; life is still life. She doesn't even know where they would live, because he won't want to move and she won't want to leave NCIS.

And anyway, despite the fact that the ring is beautiful and shiny and he seems to promise her everything she's never really had, she can't help but feel inexplicably exhausted, standing here, looking at him. He surprised her, coming to see her today and pulling her out of the office and taking her to this park and telling her he loved her and missed her, and she isn't sure she has the energy to be one half of a functioning couple again. She had given up on him a long time ago and that's comfortable now. She's always been her father's daughter after all; work, honor, and duty come first and she's gotten used to sacrificing personal relationships for a cause greater than herself. Breaking this pattern now seems daunting, and difficult, and kind of unnecessary.

It turns out that despite everything, her shivers and his earnest, waiting eyes, Ziva is okay with Ray just being a mirage. She had never expected him to be real – not wholly, not truly. Their relationship had been fun while it was light, and even as they began to get a little more serious. But playing pretend gets too hard when something real is at stake; it's just not worth it.

So she takes a deep breath, places the ring carefully, deliberately, back into its box, and tells him no. For a few seconds, he looks completely astonished, his jaw clenched and his fingers closing tightly around the box – but it's only a few seconds, before his special agent training kicks in and he reigns in his reaction, going from openly raw and heartbroken to merely melancholy. In fact, he's admirably composed, almost business-like, clearing his throat and averting his eyes as the cogs in his head turn wildly, trying to come up with plans, protocols. She has the sneaking suspicion that her refusal had not been factored into his version of The Way This Would Go.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and she means it.

He just nods, and says stiffly, "It's okay." His face closes off and he offers her a cool, empty little smile.

He rises back to his full height, and pockets the ring. They stand there a long time together, not speaking, staring determinedly around the park as though this is a mission and they are supposed to memorize every tree, every twig, every laughing, happy face around them. The honey glow of sunlight brings out the copper in her hair, the lines already deep in his face. His hand twitches slightly, as though he's about to reach out and give her hand a squeeze, but he seems to think better of it. He takes a deep breath and in a businesslike tone, he says, "Well, then, I must get going."

Ziva clears her throat, startled slightly out of her thoughts, and says, equally business-like, "Yes. Me too."

A pause. Then—

"Have a safe flight back."

"Thank you." He somehow finds it in him to smile gently. "Good-bye, Ziva."

"Good-bye."

He hesitates a few seconds longer, seeming to absorb those final details – her long hair, the curve of her cheek, her delicate shoulders and her beige jacket. She can hardly bear to meet his gaze; her heart turns to lead and retreats deep into her spine. He clears his throat again and turns around, walks away from her and towards the sun. She just watches, the misery oddly distributed through her body – heavily concentrated in her chest and behind her eyes, but barely present everywhere else.

Though the afternoon is pleasant and her jacket comfortable, she crosses her arms against a sudden chill and decides to stop for some strong coffee.

* * *

Ziva returns to the office after the scene with Ray, still slightly flushed from the cold. McGee and Tony both look up as the elevator goes _ding!_ and she appears, and they both can instantly tell that something is off. The fact that Ray did not come back with her, coupled with something brusque and hard about her walk, suggest that their meeting did not go well. They know better than to expect details, but out of courtesy, McGee still asks, as delicately as he can muster, "Ziva…is everything all right?"

She looks at him over her computer monitor and she can see the genuine worry in his wide eyes. And she can feel Tony's eyes – equally genuine, equally worried – probing her from the side. So she says, "I'm fine," in a way that means they have their done their duty and they can back off now.

McGee's gaze lingers a moment longer, but he decides to just let it go, figuring she'll talk if she wants to. Tony, however, has never been able to stifle his curiosity as effectively as the probie, and he continues to watch her closely through the rest of the afternoon.

She doesn't seem much different – and indeed, to the untrained eye it would have been almost impossible to tell that something is off – but Tony has worked with her too long, so he can see that tightness around her mouth and the deadness behind her eyes, and he knows something's up. And he can't let it go.

He waits until the workday is over and McGee has gone for the elevators before he makes his move. She is putting on her coat and getting ready to leave when he approaches her, his smile present but sobered, and asks if she wants to have a drink with him at his favorite bar a few blocks away.

The offer should be light, casual, but he's got that look on his face too, and she gives in faster than he had expected.

Tony graciously drives them both to the bar, where some song about broken hearts blares from the speakers and a raucous game of pool is going on under the neon lights. They sit on slightly rickety bar stools and order drinks – a beer for him, a shot of straight-up vodka for her. They drink, and he watches her from the corner of his eye, knowing that her acceptance of his offer means she'll talk, but not until she's ready and certainly not if he asks. So he sips, and he waits, and sure enough she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and says, "Ray took me to the park today."

He nods, unsurprised. "Were you expecting him?"

She finishes her vodka and signals for another. "No."

"What did he want?"

The second vodka comes. She downs it in one gulp and slams the glass down with some force.

"He…offered me a ring."

His eyebrows fly up towards his hairline and his heart freezes then flutters madly, like he skipped a step going downstairs by accident. But he fights to keep his voice even. "A ring? Wow. _Wow._ That's…unexpected."

She stares moodily at her empty glass, running her finger along the lip of it, refusing to look at him. "Yes."

He fixes her with one of his Looks, appraising her closed-in posture and still-tight mouth and still-deadened eyes with the quiet observation of a trained investigator. Sure, he's dying to hear her say what exactly she told Ray, but he can deduce that she said no for her own prickly, highly personal reasons, and he isn't eager to push her. That he knows at all what the situation is, and what likely happened, is enough to get his mind whirring, wondering what must have happened, what words were used, what she must be feeling right now.

They sit there in silence like that for quite a while, him looking at her, her looking down at her empty glass. The effect of the vodka is already starting to kick in; she can feel herself becoming pleasantly buzzed, fuzzy around the edges, the colors just a little sharper than usual. It's like an edge has been taken off her view of the world and the very idea of being alive is surreal, bemusing – particularly here, at this bar, with Tony.

He's still watching her, she can feel his eyes on him. She's sure he's trying to piece everything together, dying to ask for details, but she appreciates that he's not. He's always been like that, able to somehow instinctively understand what she wants and what she needs and act accordingly. And so she gravitates towards him, says yes to an evening with him when she wouldn't have said yes to anyone else, simply because his warmth and his silence feels right to her.

It's been a long time since they've sat like this, alone together while the world goes on around them. It's been a long time, too, since something weighty happened and he was there for her. And maybe it's simply the product of the alcohol in her blood, but she somehow feels powerfully close to him tonight. Like there's been some shift, some breakthrough in the atmosphere around them, and there's this electric undercurrent, long dormant, finally flowing between them that hasn't been there for years. A current that is unique to them and strikes her particularly tonight, after numbly watching Ray walk away for what's probably the last time; something that gets her blood going again.

It's kind of like it used to be in her early days of NCIS, when they shared fiercely intimate secrets in this same sort of silence, when her teasing had a much sexier tinge to it and he didn't understand her yet and her every minute detail turned him on a little. Ziva wonders vaguely where that energy, youth, and vitality has gone, because all of a sudden, she feels tired, flat, simply _old_, thinking about marriage and memories and her weird relationship with Tony. She's been hurt a lot throughout her life, and now it finally seems to be taking its toll on her. Relatively minor things – like rebuffing a man's advance, like having her heart reawaken after what feels like a long sleep – inexplicably mean more and take more out of her.

She feels fragile. As though someone will open the front doors of this bar and a gust of wind will blow inside and she will dissolve into a giant pile of dust.

She considers getting another shot, but decides it's not worth getting drunk tonight. Still, Tony is watching her, though to his credit he's trying to be discreet. She turns her whole body so that she's facing him and looks him in the eye. The sadness Tony thought he had sensed in her back at NCIS is now physically obvious in her features.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "For…this."

On an impulse, he longs to touch her – squeeze her hand, cup her face, hold her close. But he just clears his throat, stays where he's at. His beer remains mostly full.

"Don't mention it," he says.

She is still a moment longer, then reaches for her bag. This is obviously their cue to go; starting slightly, he obediently digs through his wallet and leaves a bill on the counter. Then the two of them leave the bar together and get in his car. It's below freezing; she shivers a little as he turns the heater on. He drives in silence towards her apartment building, but the curiosity and the worry that had plagued him in the office is still not assuaged. For a few wild minutes, he considers going back with her to her apartment, or simply driving to his own and leaving her no choice in the matter – because she'd say no, wouldn't she? She's never been the type to accept company when things take a turn for the sour; though she humored him by coming out for the drink, she won't want to spend any more time with him. Her thoughts are probably racing; she will want to lie awake for a few hours, gently untangling them, trying to make sense of them.

He glances at her briefly as they stop at a red light. She's looking down; her mouth is still all tight and miserable. His face softens. If there was anything he could say, any way he could take a vacuum and suck all the unhappiness out of her and away from her, he would. But the platitudes sound weak even in his own head and anyway, they've arrived at her building now. It's late and tomorrow is a work day.

When he pulls up in front of the entrance, she opens the door without a word and steps outside. Her breath is a wispy cloud lingering by her lips. She mouths thank you again and then goes inside. She's still cold all over, but somehow, after sitting around in that bar with Tony for a little while, dollops of warmth diffuse through the coolness, like badly mixed pie filling. She appreciates that he cared enough to share the silence with her tonight; that regardless of what life has done to her in the past few years, he turns up at her side like clockwork, cushioning the worst of the blow in his clumsy, often inadvertent way.

He waits until she's no longer visible inside the building before he drives away.


	2. Hurricane Drunk

A/N: Awww, you guys are too sweet. Thanks for your reviews to last chapter. I really do appreciate them.

This one is...well...kind of intense. The short beginning section picks up the day after Ray leaves; the rest picks up a few months later. I hope you like it, then!

* * *

**II. Hurricane Drunk**

No walls can keep me protected  
No sleep, nothing between me and the rain  
And you can't save me now, I'm in the grip of the hurricane  
I'm going to blow myself away

I'm going out  
I'm going to drink myself to death

I brace myself, because I know it's going to hurt  
But I like to think at least things can't get any worse

- Florence and the Machine, "Hurricane Drunk"

* * *

It's business as usual, when the two of them come back into work the next morning. The same holds true for the day after, and the day after that too. The glimmer from the bar, the brief shock of electricity in the sea of her impassiveness, fades away into routine and they are back to the roles they hold dearest – he is fun and unthethered, she is composed and inscrutable.

So time marches on, through the end of winter and spring, and their partnership continues serenely, uneventfully. The sparring and teasing and light banter carries them forward, as though that's all they are and all they have, and their stone-and-titanium walls remain firmly in place.

* * *

But everything changes the night Tony gets that call from California on a cloudy Wednesday evening in late March.

It's some guy at some swanky hospital in La Jolla. He's very kind and careful and makes some small-talk, but he's really calling to say that Anthony Dinozzo Senior died this morning in their hospital. His heart finally gave out at a party last night and the ER doctors did everything they could, but they lost him around six thirty this morning and they are very sorry.

Six thirty in the morning. Tony had been waking up and taking a shower, humming some song as he got ready for work.

He almost drops the phone and overturns his desk at the thought of it.

The man nervously offers his condolences. Then he asks what Tony wants to do with the body. _The body_. The body which, as recently as yesterday, had been doing what it has always done – digested alcohol, picked out the prettiest girl in the bar and carried out tried-and-tested flirting techniques to get into her panties. Unbelievable.

It takes a minute for Tony to find his voice. He's sure his shock and horror and grief has already registered on his face; Ziva and Gibbs went to conduct an interview and McGee is at his desk and he looks extremely anxious. But when Tony finally convinces his voice box to keep functioning, all he can say to the man on the phone is to keep the body for him for a day or two. He will get on the earliest flight he can get and be in California to take care of everything. His frozen brain is already beginning to thaw and make plans, and he abruptly has the idea of cremating Senior and spreading the ashes on a beach, letting the ocean claim him. Senior had loved the beach; the cold water, hot sand, cold beer and hot women represented his idea of paradise on Earth. Hopefully they have those things wherever he is now, too. Seventy-two virgins and all. Senior would definitely enjoy that.

Tony talks logistics with the hospital guy for another minute or two, then hangs up. He suddenly has the urge to vomit. The idea still has not completely taken root in his brain yet, that Senior no longer roams this Earth. It's just…unexpected, and strange, and the air is too dense to fit down his throat. This just can't be right.

"Tony?" McGee sounds remarkably like that nervous guy on the phone from California. "Are you all right?" The words make their way into his ears slowly, one at a time, as though he's underwater.

"My father…died this morning."

The sentence tastes funny on his tongue. It's too stark, too ludicrous – but it's the truth. It's almost as though he's saying it for his own benefit rather than McGee's. McGee certainly looks like he believes the news faster than Tony did, because his expression is akin to that of someone who has been hit round the head with a golf club.

"Tony, I am so sorry." He looks like he wants to get up, maybe even hug Tony, but he continues to sit restlessly, uncertainly, on his desk chair, peering up at Tony as though trying to gauge how likely Tony is to hit or throw something at him.

Impulses for violence certainly do flare up in Tony, but somehow he can't act on them. He's just numb all over. Senior, dead, in California. It sounds like a bad April Fool's prank. Technically, he's an orphan now. And the only Anthony Dinozzo he knows.

He just sits at his desk, stares at his sleeping computer screen, and doesn't move. But from the corner of his eye, he sees McGee excuse himself to make a call.

* * *

Gibbs and Ziva return perhaps sooner than they should; only about forty-five minutes after Tony got his phone call. Considering they were about half an hour away, they probably cut the interview short, just to come back to him. Somewhere inside his slush-filled brain, Tony finds he is rather touched.

Gibbs fixes him with a long look upon his return. As usual, there is no need for him to say much; his blue eyes, usually so steely, soften.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says, all quiet and gruff.

A pause. Then—

"Why don't you take the rest of the day." It's phrased as a question but delivered like a statement. "We'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay." Though he's partially grateful for this reprieve, he's mostly indifferent. He can hardly even think straight. He can feel Ziva watching him from her desk, penetrating his soul with those dark eyes of hers that never miss a thing, but it doesn't even occur to him to pretend he feels anything. He simply gets up, mechanically grabs his things, and heads for the elevator with slow, deliberate steps.

He's halfway to his car when he hears his name shouted out, along with the sound of running footsteps behind him. He stops, wheels around, and finds Ziva sprinting towards him, breathless.

She comes to a standstill right in front of him, her scent and her heat and her physical presence almost overwhelming. She takes a second to catch her breath, then asks, "Do you want to get wasted? It's on me."

He has to admit, the idea of getting wasted sounds pretty good right now. And she's right there, wanting to be there and take care of him and also pay.

Despite everything, he cracks a slight grin.

"Okay."

* * *

They go to a different bar this time, this one of her choosing. He's never been there before; it's warm and loud and there's hard rock playing through the speakers over their heads. It's alive and probably a little too cheerful for the occasion, but he's actually kind of grateful for that. There's nothing much worse than sitting in a quiet, empty, sad-looking bar feeling sorry for yourself. The distractions are good, proof that the world is still turning, that life does indeed go on, even if he's not quite ready to rejoin it yet.

They settle in at the counter and he's the one ordering straight-up vodka, while she sticks with a martini. And then he just starts downing the stuff, wasting no time in getting himself as smashed as he possibly can. There's no reason why not, really; he just got terrible news, and he's not even paying for these. So over the course of an hour or two, he gets steadily drunker, and Ziva just sits beside him, sipping at her martini and saying nothing.

From somewhere inside his alcohol maelstrom, Tony can tell that she wants to say something, anything – that she wants to do something besides watch him lose his mind to his poisons of choice. But he knows that she's not quite sure how to talk to him when he's feeling like he is – she's never really been good at that sort of thing – and this is her way of grieving with him. She knows how the alcohol numbs everything, covers his life in a blanket of thick, serene snow and lets him be someone else for a little while. She's felt the same way on several occasions, so she's letting him have that comfort, and lending him her company in case he does want to talk.

And even if he doesn't...well, then she'll just be his babysitter and his designated driver, and he appreciates that. Dimly, he wonders if Gibbs knows that this is what they are doing and where they are, or if Ziva got McGee to cover for her.

It's probably the former. If anything, Ziva probably met the boss's eye the second he disappeared from sight, and she was probably given the head nod that meant Gibbs approved her taking care of him tonight. Because someone needs to and anyway, this is just what they always do, after all. Take care of each other. Have each other's backs. Understand each other implicitly, even and especially when they don't understand themselves.

He has lost count of how many drinks he's had when she finally tells him that it's time to go. He is so totally smashed that words flow incoherently out of his mouth like mush and he can hardly stand and he has to slump on top of her as she steers him back to her car. She runs back in to settle the tab, leaving him to recline the passenger seat backward and stare at the roof of the car with bleary eyes. He feels like some wicked leprechaun is continuously bashing his head in with a mallet. She returns to the car a moment later, the scent of her strong – sweat, alcohol, a little smoke and a hint of something vaguely floral. He wants to look at her, maybe catch her eye, but his head slumps forward, his head lolling helplessly in space, slipping in and out of sleep.

She puts the car into gear and drives in silence, through dark street lit by neon shop signs and neat rows of street lamps. He wants to ask where they're going, but his tongue is a wet, heavy, useless lump in the middle of his mouth and he's having trouble getting the words out. And anyway, it doesn't really matter where they're going. He trusts that she won't let anything bad happen to him.

She ends up taking them to her building. She negotiates him into her apartment and turns on the lights. He screws his face up at that and whines something about fairies, but she ignores it. He's pale and clammy and slightly green, so she takes him to the bathroom across from her bedroom.

She sits him down in front of the toilet. "Go ahead," she says quietly. "Get it out of your system."

He mumbles something else, but almost as if on command, his whole body tightens and his face disappears into the toilet bowl. She winces as he coughs and retches, but she runs her hand through his hair, up and down and up and down his back, willing all his grief out with the drinks and the contents of his lunch. She hates seeing him like this, so sick and helpless, shaking like he is, coughing and sputtering. It's rare for him to willingly lose all control this way, to let her witness and be a part of his self-destruction; he normally tries very hard to suppress this kind of anguish with his wit and myriad of movie allusions.

It touches her and tears her up inside, being here with him, seeing all this without the filter. He finishes the first round of vomiting and coughs feebly, falls backwards, sprawls half-sitting, half-lying down on the cold bathroom tile. She flushes the toilet twice for good measure, and then props him up a little straighter against the wall.

He's still pale, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead, and his breathing is quick, shallow. She's just preparing herself to get up and make him some tea with honey, to rehydrate him and make his hangover less of a murderer tomorrow morning; but to her surprise, he seems to sense her movement, read her mind, and his hand finds hers and he squeezes it tight. His palm is sweaty and warm, his grip surprisingly fierce for the state he's in. He grunts irritably, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, as though he's trying to say something but the words don't quite make it out.

"Okay, okay," she mutters. Then she settles in beside him, hugging her legs inward and resting her chin on her knees. His grip on her hand slackens, but she leaves it where it is, curled up inside his palm.

They sit in silence on the floor like that for several minutes. His face relaxes and his breathing slows, as though he's going to sleep. But suddenly his eyes open and his brow furrows and he inexplicably opens his mouth and starts talking.

"You know, I don't really want to go to California," he tells her. "The hospital and his body and everything. I don't wanna go. I mean, I don't even know how to organize a funeral. I don't know who to call. I don't know where I want it to be. I mean, I've never really done this kind of thing before. I don't wanna see him all small and...and..._dead_, you know, lying there, wherever they've got him. Probably it's a freezer, like the one Ducky has, you know, with all the drawers? I never thought I'd see him in one of those. Not for a while, anyway. He'd skated through so much, I always kinda thought he'd outlive _me_. Crazy stuff, that he didn't. I mean, just another cocktail, and that's it, his heart gives out? I don't get it. He'd held his liquor well as long as I'd known him – better than me, even. God, I could tell you stories..."

There's no real flow to the following (one-sided) conversation. And it's hard for her to catch every word, because they all run together and he changes subjects without any warning. But on this night, under the influence of sadness and hopeless intoxication, Tony tells Ziva everything.

He does tell her stories, lots of them – of childhood, his father coming home tipsy. Of his mother and the few images he still has left of her, laughing and dancing and watching movies late into the night with him when he couldn't sleep. Apparently, she is the one to blame for Tony's movie obsession. He tells her about Senior's infamous shenanigans – the Civil War stuff, the details behind the time he was left in a hotel room for two days by accident, the first time Senior got married and he actually kind of liked the woman, except for when she left a couple of months later because she'd caught Senior cheating on her in their own bed. He tells her about college, and the drugs and the parties, and being Senior's son through and through in that sense. How Senior had a killer hangover on the day of his college graduation and simply forgot to come. He had turned up later in the evening, convinced that the graduation was the next afternoon.

And the amazing thing is, the longer she lets him talk, the more willing he seems to be to continue. The stories just keep coming and coming. College, then his days in Baltimore PD – some funny stories about nights out with his buddies, some not-so-funny ones about the people he had to deal with, the things he had to see. The story of Wendy comes out – how he dated her for a long time and she seemed like The One. How he proposed to her and she said she had to think about it. How she ultimately told him no and decided to break it off because he was still a child and while she loved him, she couldn't settle permanently with a child.

Women always seemed to leave him, he told her. Every single woman he'd ever cared about left him eventually. His mother first, then Wendy, and Kate, and Jeanne, and Jenny. Even her, Ziva, for a while, after the Michael situation. He was afraid he had lost her forever then. That he had managed to drive her away too. It was a relief to find that death had not yet claimed her and there was still something he could do, some way he could try to atone for what happened and bring her back. He didn't want her to be another name on the list of people he had disappointed, or let down, or been left behind by.

He stops periodically to puke through the course of the narrative, forcing her to flush the toilet and rinse his mouth out several times, but he continues on with the story anyway. It's almost compulsive, the way he determinedly tries to remember where he left off, forces himself to keep talking; as though he's vomiting out the truth about himself along with everything else. He tells her about Thanksgiving, when Gibbs had Senior in the next room while Tony admitted to loving his father, despite his behavior. Tells her that on his bucket list, he had really wanted to tell Senior that it was okay – it was okay that he left his son in a hotel room for two days, that he slept with women half his age and younger, that he forgot important events and never really kept in touch. Because Senior was his father after all, and being mad at him was too hard, too lonely, because beneath the bullshit he did mean well, he had just never learned how to express it the way normal, healthy human beings do. Senior was never meant to be a father, but he did the best he could and yeah, he'll be missed. He really will be.

"You know, the old man, he was nuts," Tony says, running a hand through his hair and then letting it fall to the cold bathroom tile. "That time, in the office, when he asked me in front of everyone, you know, when I was gonna sweep you off your feet? I wanted to kill him. And you probably did too, cuz you had that look, and we were, you know, so embarrassed. Cuz I mean, I don't really think of us like that. 'Course, it's not like I haven't thought about you like that, you know, once or twice at most, you know, 'cuz you're a chick and I'm a dude and chicks and dudes always wonder…but like, we could never be a _thing_. Think there's a rule 'bout that. And anyway, that night in Paris…"

He trails off for a second, seeming to ponder this. He still seems serene, unbothered by the things he's saying but she's startled, alert, wary, unexpectedly nervous about what it is that he's about to say next. These are dangerous waters he is blundering through here, and she's afraid that he'll drown and take her down too. Her whole body is tense as he gathers his thoughts.

Finally, he says, "That night in Paris, I mean, I thought we were gonna do it. I wanted us to do it. Cuz I've wondered, you know, since that time we had to fake it – _what would you do if we didn't have to fake it?_ But you said no and I was afraid you'd, you know, ninja-drop-kick me if I said I wanted to do it. And anyway, it'd be weird, right? Like, we're already practically family; it'd be like sleeping with my sister. My really hot adopted sister, but you know, my sister. Plus, I mean, there's that rule. But I gotta say—" he lowers his voice and leans into her, reeking of alcohol and vomit and sweat, his tone conspiratorial "—between you and me, I still wanted to do it then, and I still kinda want to do it now. I don't know why. I mean, it'd never just stop at the sex – there's too many movies about how friends with benefits don't work, I mean, like that new one that looks really stupid, that was out in theaters recently, with that hot chick from _That 70's Show_ – so we'd have to be in a relationship after the sex, which, you know, wouldn't work. We'd screw it up and lose our jobs, too, probably, and I do like us where we are now, you know, co-workers with a little something extra. But still. I kinda wanna do it anyway. Cuz we're just…ya know, we have _pah._ Chemistry, right? You get me and I get you. And at the end of the day, me and you always end up together. 'Cuz despite the fact that you're you and all, I like you. Cuz you're a good listener. A real, real good listener."

He grins all sloppy and lazy at that, apparently not seeing the horrified, frozen, trapped look on her face. He pets her on the head and then says, "You know, I'm kinda sleepy."

It takes most of the energy resources in her body to find her voice and say, "Okay. Let's go."

"'Kay." He's still grinning somehow, oblivious to the nature of all he has said in the past hour or so. He lifts up his arms like a small child expecting to be held. She stands up herself and takes his hands, heaves him up. He slumps on top of her again like he did at the bar, mumbling something she doesn't bother trying to understand. His weight is somehow different this time; heavier, yet more fragile, as though he really will fall and crash and get badly hurt if she is careless. She navigates him towards her bedroom – it's closer – and rips off the covers, dumps him on the mattress.

He stretches out diagonally across the bed like a starfish, asleep almost at once. His shoe slips off his foot with a clatter to the floor. He's already snoring. And she just stands there over him, her arms crossed and her shoulders curled inward, watching him.

His hangover is going to be awful in the morning. And she's not sure how much he's going to remember about tonight. She's not even sure how much she wants to remember from tonight, because it's been a lot to take in, these past few hours, and she's still reeling.

With her bed thus occupied, Ziva takes a spare blanket and pillows from her closet and camps out on the couch. But she can't sleep, of course, because Tony's words from the bathroom are on an endless loop on the radio inside her head and she can't shut it off. She can't ignore the magnitude of what happened here tonight just because of a minor trifle like sleeping before work in the morning.

In all the years she has known her partner, he has never been like this. So erratic, open, his heart so obviously fixed on his sleeve, drenching them both in its scarlet honesty. They make it a point to never talk about their relationship, what they mean to each other. Their history is too thorny, too complicated and full of pitfalls and thorns, to reference in everyday life. But tonight, he crashed through all the barriers they usually build for themselves, like a careless teenage driver forgetting the rules of the road and making a mess of things. He talked about that awkward night in Paris when they were on assignment a couple of years ago, with that single hotel bed; about being worried for her after Michael; about wanting to have sex with her, for goodness' sake. They never go there, for goodness' sake. _Never, never, never_.

Suddenly, she is just exhausted, with no energy to speak of, like she was the afternoon Ray proposed all those months ago. Tony tires her out, because he coaxes out something out of her depths, out of the very essence of her humanity, that she has rarely allowed herself to fathom – compassion, profound loyalty, affection so blistering and deeply-rooted and real that it sometimes scares her. That she never even thought she had the capacity to feel.

Back in her Mossad days, she could never have imagined feeling this way for someone. She could never have imagined sitting up late into the night listening to a drunken soliloquy about life and its love and cruelty; she could never have imagined sitting on a cold bathroom floor rubbing someone's back as they vomited, unless she desperately needed them for some assignment. She could never have imagined feeling so fiercely protective of someone, wanting to siphon all their hurt away from them and drink it herself, letting them sleep in her own bed. She has come to feel great love for Gibbs, McGee, Abby and Ducky over these years at NCIS, more so than she has felt about anyone in her life – but she has always harbored something special for Tony Dinozzo. Something electric that keeps them bound, intertwined in a way neither of them can explain. Something that lurks beneath the normal, platonic things they do everyday and adds a murky subtext to each touch, each time his eyes meet hers.

He has said words tonight that should have sent her away, screaming for the hills. She should be retreating back to her shell right now, fighting to pretend that this hasn't happened, that it doesn't matter because he won't remember any of this tomorrow and he was half out of his mind when he spoke anyway.

Instead, though, she finds that she is dwelling on the moment he said he still kind of wanted to sleep with her – how for a second it was almost as if he was aware of her and himself and this bizarre situation, and he was so desperately trying to tell her what she needed to know before the opportunity passed them by. Her heart is light and faint and it flutters madly, almost ready to burst out of her chest and fly in circles over her head.

She is afraid, of what he said and what it is doing to her, and exhausted by the strain of dealing with the mess he is so good at creating in her. The darkness of the inky night sky makes everything exponentially more important and genuine; the lateness of the hour is insulated, oddly safe for this dangerousness, and it loosens her at the seams, quietly threatening everything she knows.

Though Ziva is perfectly well aware that Tony will not remember his declarations to her tomorrow, she has to wonder – what if he did remember? Does she want him to? Because as early as yesterday, she would have said no, of course not, since it would make things complicated and weird and that's the last thing she wants right now.

But that was before today – before he confirmed that he did want a personal relationship with her. Before he told her he liked her despite herself. Before she got an extended glimpse into his very soul and found that she would like to see more after tonight, maybe even show him a bit of hers someday, when they're both ready.

* * *

Thursday morning, Tony wakes up abruptly, sitting bolt upright in a bed that is not his, in a room that doesn't smell right, with a headache he wouldn't even wish on the devil. There is a foul taste in his mouth and too much sunlight in his face. The idea of standing up and doing anything at all is loathsome. God, this is some hangover.

He lies there on the bed very still for a few minutes, trying to grasp the concept of this new day, trying to remember what happened. The details come back slowly and hazily. The hangover. Some dim images of vomiting. The drinking. The phone call. Senior. Dead. La Jolla. Needing a flight. Senior, really dead. Ziva. Work.

Oh God, Ziva. This is Ziva's apartment. And today…today is Thursday. So he has to be at work. Shit, he has to be at work.

Though his head feels as though someone replaced his brain with heavy stones, he forces himself to get up and stumble to the bathroom. There he finds a note taped to the door.

_Tony—_

_It's okay, don't panic. I told Gibbs you would not be coming into work today. You will have to call a cab to get home; your car is still at NCIS. Call me later and I can take you to get it. There is a pot of tea and a jar of honey on the counter._

_—Ziva_

It takes a couple of read-throughs for his eyes to process the words, printed neatly in her hand. But when he does finally get it, a small but unexpected burst of sunshine awakens in his stomach and blooms. He rips the note off the door, tosses it into the garbage can, and pads out to her kitchen. The whole place is as still as a crypt. The tea things and the jar of honey are laid out neatly on the counter, as promised. He helps himself to a cup and sits at her dining table, sipping at it, staring out the window and trying not to think about the dull ache all over his body, the memories beginning to come back, the embarrassment forcefully setting in.

_Exactly how much did he drink last night?_

* * *

He goes home around noon and crashes on his bed. At eight PM, he wakes up and texts her, asking when she'll be off. It's easier than calling her; since he's not sure what exactly happened after she asked him to go drinking, he doesn't really want to face the sound of her voice. She texts back within two minutes saying she'll be over around nine thirty. He spends the intervening minutes cleaning himself up, making himself look presentable. He feels better now, it's just the headache that's left, and the sizeable slash in his gut he gets every time he remembers the fact that Senior is dead and he has to go to California to sort that out.

Ziva comes at nine thirty precisely. Tony steps outside his building and finds her waiting by her car, appraising him carefully as he approaches her. Mostly she's checking to make sure he's all right, not too hung over, but there's something else about the way she looks at him – something he can't quite put his finger on – that makes him suspicious.

He gets into her car and they begin driving to NCIS. She asks him how he is and if he has replenished his fluids today, but after he answers those questions there's not much else to say. So they choose to spend the rest of the drive sitting together in silence.

They get to the parking garage and she parks in the handicap spot a few feet away from his car. He should get out, but he is somehow rooted to the spot, as though it's not quite right to leave yet. He can feel her eyes probing him for something and he wonders what she's looking for.

After a long minute, she says, "Tony?"

Only now does he meet her gaze. She looks like she did outside his building, her eyes uncharacteristically shiny, overflowing with emotion.

"I am…sorry…about Senior. I will miss him too."

And now he gets it. That thing he couldn't put his finger on – it was pity. Because like the fool he is, he probably got over-honest with the alcohol and told her about how torn up he felt about his father dying. Though it's a perfectly natural thing to be torn up over something like that, he finds himself embarrassed.

He nods, acknowledging her condolences, but then asks her on an impulse, "Hey…how bad was I last night?"

She blinks, surprised, almost wary. "What do you mean?"

His cheeks go red. "Well…I mean…with the drunkness. How bad was I?"

She seems to be calculating several factors very quickly, carefully. "Well…bad. But understandably so."

He isn't entirely convinced, but he nods again and lets it go.

"Thanks," he says at last. "For…everything."

"Of course," she says, and she seems to mean it.

He tries to search her face for clues, because something isn't feeling right here, but his head is aching again and he doesn't feel quite up to playing these complicated games with Ziva. He manages a weak little smile, then opens the door and goes towards his car. And she watches him get the machine into gear and drive out of the garage, wondering if she did the right thing, not telling him what he said last night.

He has enough to deal with right now; he probably has a funeral to plan. And anyway, it's stupid to put much store by a few scrambled mumbles from a drunken, grieving, infamously promiscuous coworker in the dead of night over a toilet bowl.

The insulated darkness is gone; the bracing reality of daylight has set in. He doesn't remember and she's not going to remind him.

Once again, life must trudge on.

* * *

A/N: Whew! That was a little bit crazy, eh?

This chapter was actually one I'd already had written from my disastrous attempt at the one-shot, but it's the last of the stuff I have in my arsenal. Hence this one came promptly - and I'm not sure when the next one will come. I'm back to school this week from winter break and I never know how the college roller coaster will treat me from day to day.

I will try my best to update again in a prompt manner, but I can't promise anything right now. I should post soon though. My muse has declared she is interested enough in this story to ponder it while I toil away in class. So.

In the mean time, please review on your way out!


	3. Reassignment

A/N: So here it is. A new update. I hope you guys like it despite the fact that it's, well, a bit melancholy. And please remember to review when you're done!

* * *

**III. Reassignment**

Tony holds Senior's funeral in April, but otherwise, the next few months float on in relative peace. The job is rough – crime, murder, and late nights are routine – and that's what Tony and Ziva choose to focus on.

There simply isn't anything personal left to say anymore. Tony still doesn't remember what he said that night, but he does realize that he probably got embarrassingly sick and whiny that night and has no desire to bring up that mess in conversation – or ever go drinking with her again, for that matter. And Ziva, determined to ignore the incident as well, follows his lead and exchanges nothing more than polite, friendly banter. Any flickers of electricity from that night have long since snuffed themselves out.

But their world changes irrevocably once again, about six months after Tony stayed at Ziva's, when Director Vance offers Tony his own team in North Carolina.

The proposition is made quietly, with Tony getting called up to Vance's office and being told there was a place open for him with a couple of rookies and an excellent senior field agent. At first, he is so shocked that words fail him for a minute or two; then his brain finally unfreezes and starts thinking fast.

The last time this kind of promotion was put forth, it was Jenny sitting behind the desk, offering him the team in Rota. And back then, he had decided he wasn't ready and had chosen to pass, stay with Gibbs's team a little while longer. At the time, it had been a good decision, even though he knew fully well that such a good promotion might not come again.

But now it has. The offer has appeared on the table one more time – and it's closer to home, too. Vance gives him a week to make up his mind, but he grins slightly as Tony sees himself out, as though the director already knows that the answer will be yes. And, by all objective standpoints, the answer should definitely be yes. Yet Tony can't find it in him to say the word so quickly, because all of a sudden, that horrifying prospect he had procrastinated before is back – a world without Gibbs, McGee, Ziva, Abby, or Ducky.

Even if it might be good for his career, he can't imagine not working near them everyday. It can't be good for his soul. Can't be.

He remembers leaving home for college all those years ago, eighteen years old with everything to prove. That hadn't been too hard; his home had never really been much of a home anyway.

But leaving this building, this team?

The thought of it makes his stomach turn hard and cold and cannonball straight towards his toes.

* * *

So, like the last time, he sits on the offer in silence, tries to think it through. But unlike the last time, he drives out to Gibbs's place three days after Vance approached him. The innocuous little house on the familiar dark, quiet street sits the way it always does – the window shades closed, the air still, the door unlocked.

Tony goes straight to the basement and of course that's where the boss is, leaning against the counter and staring critically at a half-finished boat. He looks up as Tony descends down the well-worn stairs towards him, but he already knows something important is on Tony's mind. Even if Gibbs had not noticed a strange, subtle distance in Tony over the past couple of days, the sound of his footsteps is all wrong. Too hesitant, like he's nervous about something.

"Evening, boss." Even his smile is all wrong – too tense, too polite.

"Evening, Dinozzo," Gibbs says calmly.

And then he just waits.

Tony stands before his boss and quietly agonizes for a few seconds longer, then gives up and tells Gibbs everything – getting called up to Vance's office, the offer, the deadline, Vance's knowing smirk, the consideration that has gnawed incessantly at him since then. Gibbs listens closely, his expression impenetrable. His face has a hard, carved sort of look to it – almost as though he had fashioned it out of wood too, like his boat.

When Tony finishes his tale, he asks, his voice now as hesitant as his feet. "So…what do you think, boss? Should I go for it?"

Gibbs doesn't answer right away. He mulls the idea one over for a long moment as he pours out two glasses of bourbon.

Then—

"Well, I don't know, Dinozzo. Do you think you should go for it?"

Gibbs holds out a glass. Tony accepts it, sips at it for another long moment.

"I think…well, that I probably should."

"Then there's your answer."

Tony pulls up a stool, his expression still troubled.

"I mean, I know I _should_…but I don't know if I can."

Gibbs pulls up a stool too, one of the legs making a whiny scraping noise against the floor of the basement. He fixes his senior field agent with one of his cool, almost deadpan stares, giving nothing away but almost x-raying Tony's soul, sending an inexplicable shiver down his spine.

At last, he says solemnly, "If you pass this one up, it should be because you're not ready, not because the rest of us aren't ready."

Tony takes in the sight of his boss of so many years – the silver hair, the cornflower-blue eyes, his ratty sweatshirt and his faded jeans and this smell of bourbon and wood and coffee that makes him feel safe in the world – and downs the rest of his drink in one big stinging sip.

"Do you think I'm ready, boss?" His eyes are uncharacteristically vulnerable, like a child seeking reassurance before making his first steps alone.

Gibbs gets up heavily, picks up a well-worn sander and approaches the boat.

"I think you're ready," he says quietly. "I think you've been ready a long time."

He begins to sand the side of the boat, the steady rhythm of the moving sander like a lullaby now. Tony stays sitting on that stool a little while longer, just to keep listening to it, keep smelling that smell, watching his boss patiently smooth out every single imperfection in the wood until he deems it right. Then, smiling slightly, with his heart lighter and more melancholy than it's been in three days, he shows himself out.

* * *

Tony tells the team about his decision with his signature brand of jovial humor the next morning.

McGee walks into the office disgruntled due to a morning rain shower that soaked him through. He grumbles about the bad weather and asks Tony if he's got an extra sweatshirt or something lying around. Tony says no with an enormous grin on his face and McGee accuses him of withholding the sweatshirt just to get the pleasure out of seeing his probie suffer. Ziva smirks from her side of the office, checking her email but watching the progress of this conversation over her computer screen, while Tony feigns deep indignance.

"Well, that's not very nice, McGrumpy," he says. "How would you feel if I were to leave here tomorrow to peddle my talents where they are better appreciated, and the last thing you ever said to me was an unfounded accusation?"

"I'd feel just fine, since you're not going anywhere," says McGee.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Tim," says Tony, shaking a finger at him. "There are other people in this world who don't take me for granted, you know."

McGee just wrinkles his nose, baffled. But Ziva's eyes narrow slightly, and she asks, "Like who, Tony?"

"Like…like, I don't know, people like our director, for instance," he says. "Or…or people in the fine state of North Carolina."

Ziva's eyes narrow further; McGee begins to catch on too.

"Wait…people in North Carolina? Tony, have you been offered a new job or something?"

Tony fake-clears his throat loudly, his expression more somber now. "Well, now that you mention jobs and North Carolina…yes, I have been offered one there very recently."

They are silent, eyes wide.

"_And_?" demands McGee. "Are you going to take it?"

"Well, if all I get for my efforts here is an allegation of withholding a sweatshirt like a freshman in high school—"

"Answer the question, Tony." Ziva's dark eyes are suddenly alight with something he can't quite put a name to.

He sighs. "Yes, Ziva, I'm going to take it. I told the director this morning. I leave for North Carolina in a couple of months."

The two are still silent, eyes even wider now, mouths slack and open slightly. Tony looks from one to the other, his heart hammering.

"What, no congratulations? No apologies for false claims? No I'm-going-to-miss-you-Tony? Geez, what's wrong with you people?"

"Well, of course, congratulations, Tony," says McGee hastily, getting up to shake Tony's hand. "It's just…wow. This is…unexpected."

"I know," says Tony. "But it's a new team in the North Carolina office, and they want me out there, and I figure, you know, this is probably never going to happen again. I should take the opportunity before it passes me by."

"That makes sense," says McGee.

"Anyway, I cleared it with Gibbs last night. I will be leaving in a couple of months. But hey – don't tell anyone else yet, all right? Particularly Abby."

"Okay," agrees McGee. "Of course. You should tell them yourself."

"Yeah." He smiles, though with less bravado than before, now that the secret is out and his team-mates are every bit as surprised as he had expected them to be.

McGee goes back to his computer, though a slight crease remains between his eyebrows. Tony expects this when he looks up to glance at the probie, try to glean what he is thinking.

What he doesn't expect is the stark, conspicuous silence from Ziva's desk that lasts not just after his announcement but also for the rest of the week. She congratulates him, of course, gives him a surprised but genuinely warm smile, yet afterwards she stops talking to him altogether, unless she's referring to the case. Almost like her throat is too thick and her insides too leaden to conjure the energy necessary for a personal conversation.

He reminds himself that he'd had three days to get used to the idea that their tight-knit team will be short one very special agent, torn at the seams after so many years of holding strong against all the odds. But she has only heard about it now. And she appears to be having as much trouble with it as he has – perhaps even more so.

He isn't sure whether he should be sorry that it's finally time for him to leave this insulated nest, or relieved, because he isn't the only one who feels this looming separation like an ironclad fist to the heart.

* * *

Out of everyone he has to tell about this decision, telling Abby is the hardest. She looks at him with wounded green eyes when he breaks it to her and then falls on top of him in a rib-smashing hug. She tries hard to be thrilled for him, but she is devastated by the idea that their little family really won't be a family anymore. She understands, of course, why he did it. It's a wonderful opportunity to advance his career, one he should absolutely take. Tony has been here, working under Gibbs's wing, for a very long time. It's time to move on. But she hates, hates, hates moving on. Always has.

Abby's mood is infectious; the rest of the team feels the weight and reality of Tony's decision keenly too. This good-bye isn't temporary; this assignment is not a relocation. This whole thing is permanent and it's almost too much to bear. This era of their lives is really going to be over now.

Tony has a month to get his things together and then fly out to North Carolina. The last night before he leaves, the team throws him a little party and presents him with their parting gifts: McGee gives him a booklet he has written himself – "Computer Hacking and Tricks for Dummies," for when McGee isn't around to be his tech lackey. Ducky gives Tony a couple of books on crime from his personal collection. Jimmy Palmer gives him a stack of DVD's. Abby presents him with a giant Abby Care Basket, full of pictures and candy and Caff-Pow and even a stuffed penguin she has given an Abby make-over. She informs him that the penguin is supposed to sit in a prominent place on his desk everyday and she wants photographic evidence that it is indeed there, once he gets settled in. Gibbs gives him a wooden miniature sailboat – hand-carved. Ziva places a slim, plain black box onto Tony's desk and tells him to open it later that evening. And, though his interest is highly piqued, he agrees.

For some time, the seven of them stand around in the office as the lights go off around them, the conversation light and effortless but nevertheless flowing determinedly. It weighs heavily on all of them, how precious tonight is. How it truly is the last of its kind, the last time all of them are together this way. But the inevitable moment of goodbye looms and looms and presently arrives – and when it does, they all fall silent, somber.

Tony gathers his gifts tenderly, puts them in his bag to take home and pack. Abby is the first to kiss Tony on both cheeks and give him a rib-straining hug. Ziva, too, kisses his cheek and gives him a hug. Jimmy Palmer gives Tony one of his awkward but sincere hugs. McGee shakes his hand, but then thinks better of it and gives him a short, tight hug. Ducky fends off Abby, who wants to give Tony another hug, and hugs him as well. Even Gibbs comes forward and briefly hugs Tony – something that leaves him touched, but speechless. The subsequent slap to the back of his head is more like it; he cracks a wistful grin, knowing he'll probably get phantom pains there the rest of his life when he knows he's screwed up.

He heads slowly, painfully, surely towards the elevators, drinking in the sight of them collected together like that, the tiny group of people he loves so much. He tries to memorize their every last detail: McGee's thin face and sweet smile; Ziva's straight toffee-colored hair and exotic scent, like ginger and cinnamon; Jimmy's curly hair and Harry Potter glasses and Ducky's bow-ties and the smell of disinfectant in Autopsy; Abby's black lipstick and infectious laughter. And Gibbs – his silver hair, the wrinkles set so deeply in his face, the formidable, omniscient look he has that renders the human soul unsafe from his scrutiny. Gibbs, with that tiny smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, saying_, go, it's okay_. _Good luck._

And then it's finally, finally time to leave – step into the elevators for the last time, find his car, drive away.

* * *

It's one in the morning and Tony is finishing up the last of his packing, tucking the team's gifts into his carry-on bag. And that's when he remembers Ziva's plain black box, which she told him to open later. He gently pries open the lid, his curiosity burning.

Underneath a thin layer of black tissue paper, he finds a knife. It's an old one; the handle is obviously worn and soft with use. But it's a fine knife, and in good condition – recently cleaned, the blade shiny, glinting in the half-light of his bedroom. He picks it up, considering the weight of it. It fits comfortably in his palm.

There is a note at the bottom of the box.

_This is one of mine. Use it well._

_-Z_

So she decided to give him one of her old Mossad knives. He rubs his thumb up and down on the handle, wondering what its story is, how many people have lost their blood, limbs, lives to it. He's lost in thought for a few moments, holding Ziva's knife, thinking about the Ziva who had used it. The Ziva with the wild curly hair and the bandana and the do-me smirk, who seduced and killed and waltzed into their office just after Kate died, never dreaming that she would stay so long, that she would become Tony's partner, that she would soon give way to a Ziva with straight hair and an investigator's badge and an American passport who turned into one of their own. Who gave him this part of her to keep.

He sighs wearily, shakes the memories from his head like a recently-drenched puppy shakes off water. He places the knife back into its box, devoutly grateful that he chose to open Ziva's gift now and place it safely into his check-in bag. He can only imagine the hell he would get in the airport if that were found in his carry-on luggage.

* * *

The days after Tony's departure are flat, strange. His desk is conspicuously empty. Vance tries to suggest a replacement for Tony, but Gibbs just gives him one of his Looks and Tony's desk remains resolutely empty. Ziva and McGee keep staring at it several times a day, pretending not to catch the other doing so. Abby plays funeral music for weeks.

Gibbs makes sure they are plenty busy, but the chemistry of the group feels off. McGee is now be the senior field agent and Ziva is his partner, and they work together very well, but they feel Tony's absence almost as the third person on the team. They do not, perhaps, miss his silly antics, but they do miss his laughter, his insight, his movie references. And there are too many moments now, when McGee will be down with Abby and Gibbs has gone to speak with the director about something and Ziva is alone in the bull-pen, doing all the background checks by herself.

Tony's reassignment is hard on all of them, but it hits Ziva the hardest. McGee and Abby have each other, and Gibbs and Ducky have always been good at somehow moving forward, even in the midst of tumultuous change. She feels unprepared, somehow. She had two months to get used to the idea that he was going to leave, but now that he's gone, the person she would have related to best in this situation has gone too.

She sends him short chatty emails once every week or two, and he responds back equally short and chatty, and it's nice to hear how North Carolina is, how his new team is, how he's settling in, but it's not the same. Not even close. They've never been short and chatty and it feels strange to start now.

She knew she would miss him when he went, but she didn't know she would miss him the way she is. She didn't know how seeing his desk quiet and unoccupied every morning would hurt as much as it did the first morning. She feels kind of lost without him. McGee is sweet, and Gibbs is, well, Gibbs…but Tony is obnoxiously, blatantly, wonderfully Tony and he wasn't just her coworker, he was – and is – her friend. She needs him around more than she cares to admit.

One night, as Ziva is packing up to go home, McGee asks her if she wants to go out for a drink. She is surprised – they have never been the type to go drinking together after work – but she accepts and they meet up at the bar. The one she likes, where she took Tony after his father had died.

They sit inside at the stools, order their drinks. Ziva goes for whiskey. She doesn't usually like it, but tonight she needs the kick, the burn in her throat as it goes down. McGee goes for a margarita. They drink responsibly, make some pleasant small talk, and head out to their cars to go home at a reasonable hour.

It's nothing like it was with Tony that night in that bar. No understanding silences, no overdosing on liquor, no insane drunken speeches or vomiting. It's nothing like it was with Tony even when Tony wasn't grieving, because when Tony and Ziva spent time together after work, having a drink or watching a movie or anything, there was always some banter or insight, a weird, quiet confidence they had in each other that she couldn't explain or comprehend but that existed between them anyway.

McGee is a wonderful man, and a good friend, but she does not feel the same way with him. The same intimacy, the same electricity. She does connect with McGee, but they have only politeness and a kind of superficiality to their conversation and they simply don't _get_ each other.

She arrives at home and goes to bed and lies awake for several hours, staring at her ceiling, wondering how long it will take for Tony's absence to feel natural, or at least less like someone has accidentally set off some depression gas at the office that saps all the humor and life and joy from the air.

* * *

The same night, Tony crash-lands to bed after an insanely long day, following promising leads that went nowhere and still trying to get comfortable with a probie and a newly-instated special agent following him around, looking for directions. The job is good, he knows he has made the right decision, but Neil Hartman and Liz Stein are not Tim McGee and Ziva David and he, Tony, is not Gibbs. There are still growing pains all these months later, trying to connect with and love these perfect strangers.

He lies there in the dark, staring at a foreign ceiling and listening to the air conditioner hum, for a long time before sleep finally claims him. And the next day, when he arrives at work too early, he sits around at his desk, staring around at the other desks, all of them lit up gold with the weak morning sunlight. If he slows down long enough, he finds that he feels as empty as they are.

Tony starts up his computer and checks his voicemail. Abby's care package penguin watches him intently from its spot on his desk. Ziva's knife sits heavy in its place at his waist. People are typing and talking on phones all around this floor. He wonders vaguely how Gibbs did it, that horrible summer when he, Ziva and McGee had all been reassigned. How he could stomach saying good-bye and moving on and starting over with a new bunch.

But the elevator makes that _ding!_ sound; Hartman and Stein are here. There is work to be done.


End file.
